


Darling, Give Me Your Absence Tonight

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but just with fingers), Aftercare, Blood and Gore, Cutting, Dry Sex, Face-Fucking, Fisting, Hallucinating Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Mentions of Scat, Painful Sex, Painplay, Prolapse, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 07, woundfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17362550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Lucifer has become immune to the pain inflicted by Sam's hand scar. He asks Dean to take it further.





	Darling, Give Me Your Absence Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season seven. This is not for the faint-hearted, kittycats!

“It’s not working.”

Sam’s voice sounds strained, like he does when he’s bleeding out in the passenger seat but he wants Dean to think it’s not that bad. But there’s a tremor in it that he can’t hide, and that Dean can’t help but hear; he knows Sam’s voice. Knows how he sounds while he’s experiencing every possible emotion or sensation, and right now? Right now, he’s hurting. Right now, he’s barely hanging on to whatever grasp of reality he’s had.

The devil’s in the room, but Dean can’t fucking see him.

He drops to his knees on the thin carpet right there next to his little brother, his knees creaking and popping like a geriatric. Neither of them have slept more than three hours a night since Dean got him back. They’re running empty on a shared tank of gas.

Sam’s wearing sleep pants that Dean insisted he change into, some soft plaid things that make Dean think of weekends spent in bed, of being a little spoon for his baby brother, of a vacation that they’ll never have. Hunters don’t have a union. They don’t get days off.

Sam’s eyes are squeezed closed, the spring day storm colors of them hidden beneath long, damp lashes. His chin is trembling, and all his remaining energy is focused on his left hand, on the jagged, V-shaped cut there that’s long since healed, that is nothing but a fading scar that Sam has used to tether himself to the earth for the last couple of months. His thumb digs into the center of it so hard it’s turned ghost white. 

Dean cradles Sam’s hand in both of his own, staring down at it with a desperate sort of focus, like he can diagnose this, like he can fix it.

A choked-out sob escapes Sam’s mouth, and Dean feels every bone in his body dissolve with empathetic despair.

“No, s-stop.” It’s soft, nearly whispered, as afraid as a little boy pleading with the monster under his bed. Dean’s eyes burn hot. “You’re lying. You’re lying.”

The thumb pressed into the scar tips up on end, and Sam tries his damnedest to dig his bitten-down fingernail in, to break skin. When nothing happens, he curls down around himself, his forehead grazing the top of Dean’s head.

“Tell him to stop,” Sam begs, his voice so close, so wet with tears. He sounds so young. “Dean, tell him. Tell him to leave me alone. I know he’s lying. You’re right here. You’re not dead. Right? You’re not--”

“Not dead,” Dean’s quick to join in, one hand clamping down around Sam’s wrist, holding so tight that he cuts off the blood in his whole hand. Feels it pulse angrily beneath his grip. “No fuckin’ way. Too stubborn to die, you hear me? I’m right here. Haven’t had a shower in three days. My breath smells like chili fries. You think you made that up?”

 

Sam smiles, just a flash of movement on a clenched face, but it’s enough to make him suck in a breath, to relax the tiniest bit when he lets it out. Dean uses the break to push his hand across Sam’s palm, edging his thumb out of the way and threading his fingers between Sam’s impossibly long ones. 

It takes a lot to make Dean Winchester feel small. But holding his brother’s hand does it every fucking time.

He tips his face up and takes his time nuzzling it against Sam’s, letting his nose drag over his scratchy jaw and the cut of his cheek. He forces his own breathing to stay slow and steady and deep, his eyes falling closed as he lines their mouths up and slides his nose up against the side of Sam’s. He can almost taste Sam’s breath, his exhaustion, his helpless fear.

He wants to murder every single being, celestial or otherwise, who led them to this exact moment.

“Tell me what you need,” Dean murmurs against Sam’s mouth, refraining from kissing him only because they don’t talk much when he does. “Tell me. I’ll do anything you need. Anything.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Sam sounds so much like Dean’s little boy, like he did nearly three decades ago when he was the smallest kid in class and he wasn’t good yet at saying hi to kids he didn’t know or being more than five feet away from his big brother in any given situation. It makes Dean tense up all over, makes him wanna reach for his gun and shoot around the room until he hits Sam’s hallucination of Lucifer right in the goddamn forehead. 

He kisses the side of Sam’s mouth, can’t help it. Just a touch of lips that Sam nestles into.

“I need it to hurt.” Five words out of Sam’s mouth that have Dean’s breath stopped in his lungs and his dick stirring away sluggishly in his jeans. 

“...What?” he asks when Sam doesn’t offer anything more, his free hand cupping Sam’s jaw, his ear tucked in the split between thumb and forefinger. My beautiful boy. 

“Hurt me. Just…” Sam licks his lips, wetting them and making them pinker and Dean pushes in closer against the side of the bed, hips pressed full against the mattress until it feels good. “Just until he goes away. Help me get rid of him.”

“Hurt you how?” It’s not a no. Maybe a conditional yes. Or maybe he just wants to seem like he needs some rules or morals before he’ll do whatever Sam’s asking, but they both know the truth; Dean doesn’t have morals when it comes to Sam. Dean doesn’t have rules. They saw to that when seven-year-old Dean pretended to be the Daddy to Sam’s preschool Mommy, and Mommy asked for a baby for Christmas.

“I trust you.” Three words that are better than the traditional three, that mean everything coming from Sam Winchester. He relaxes then, the impossible length of his long body sprawling out on the mattress to prove to Dean how serious he is, how much he means it. Dean’s eyes catch on a tight slip of skin between Sam’s white t-shirt and his sleep pants. He throws an arm over his eyes and sniffles a little, hiding the tears that are probably spilling over from his eyes finally, that he’s held back long enough.

Dean swallows. Feels like a god with all the possibilities that lie before him.

“Any hard no’s?” 

He pushes his thumb across Sam’s palm, across the raised skin of his scar. Sam opens his eyes and meets Dean’s, searching them as he shakes his head, slow and dreamy. For all he knows, Sam is looking at Lucifer and not him.

“Never with you.” It’s almost shy, and Dean’s heart kicks up some dust. He drops a quick kiss to Sam’s mouth and squeezes his hand before pushing up to his feet, his eyes already darting around the small, dark room.

“Need some alcohol,” he says to himself, fumbling with the gun tucked down the back of his pants as he scans the room for sharp things. Dangerous things.

“There’s some Jim Beam in the--”

“Not the kind of alcohol I was thinkin’,” Dean replies, grabbing the keys off the table near the window. “Gonna run out to the car. Get a few things. Just.”

He turns to look at Sam still curled up on his side on the bed.

“Get undressed for me.”

The words come out low without even trying, and he has the pleasure of watching the heat rush across Sam’s cheeks. 

“Okay,” Sam whispers back.

“Be right back.” Dean lifts the keys to show Sam before he’s ducking out of the warm room and into the cold January night setting in outside of it. They’ve always been selfish, in a way. Always been so eager and so good at shutting out the world beyond when they manage to find themselves tucked away from it, just the two of them. Dean found a word for it a long time ago.

Survival.

Half an hour later, the sky is black and cloudless and Dean’s sterilized everything sharp they have as best as he can. He’s still dressed as he stands over Sam who’s newborn-bare and just as vulnerable, and he doesn’t even glance down at the knife Dean’s got gripped in his hand, glinting sharp in the yellowed lamp light. He looks right up into Dean’s eyes, and Dean doesn’t look away, not even once. 

“He still here?” he asks, the knife handle twisting with pent-up energy against his palm.

Sam glances behind Dean, right over his shoulder, and the fear that breaks across his sweat-glistening face makes Dean take the last few steps separating them and climb up onto the bed. He snarls as he pushes a hand into Sam’s hair and yanks his head back when he gets to the crown of his skull, giving a cruel twist to the thick mess of it. He’s straddling his little brother and Sam looks startled by how sudden it started, and Dean can feel him tremble when he presses the very tip of Dad’s trusty Ka-Bar to Sam’s jugular, not stopping until he feels metal pierce flesh. Just a little.

“Are you my good boy?” Dean whispers. He stares right into Sam’s eyes as a bright trickle of blood melts down his flushed neck in his periphery. He turns the blade until the flat of it slides along Sam’s bobbing throat, no real threat, but the cold metal against his burning skin has to be startling.

“Yeah,” Sam huffs out, soft, almost enthralled. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple pushing back against the blade. 

“I’m going to cut you,” Dean tells him calmly, letting the edge of the knife press against his skin, so sharp that it starts to sink in with hardly any pressure. “But I’m going to let you pick where.”

Sam licks his lips, and Dean can tell he’s fighting the instinct to tell Dean to do it wherever he wants.

“Stomach.”

Dean feels the twitch of Sam’s belly under his own, and he realizes with no small amount of pleasure that Sam is so hard that Dean can feel the burning pulse of his cock through his own jeans. He loosens his grip on Sam’s hair and starts to pet it, tendering his scalp and letting his face soften into something perversely maternal. It’s enough to make Sam’s eyes laze, his big hands resting on Dean’s thighs, massaging absently.

Neither of them breathe as Dean drags the flat edge of the blade down Sam’s throat to his chest, cutting a very careful trail around his left nipple and coming to stop at his belly button.

Sam’s eyes widen in alarm, and he breaks character long enough to frown at Dean, the question written plainly on his face: Really? 

“I wonder what it’d be like,” Dean says, more to himself than Sam. He stands the knife up on end and edges the tip inside of Sam’s navel. Sam’s not breathing again. “To cut you open right here. Just slice right through. Open you up. It’d be so warm, Sammy. I know how fucking hot you are inside.”

“Dean,” Sam shivers, but he fights so hard to stay still. Not to arch into Dean’s knife. Dean can feel it, how tense his muscles are.

“Would you let me, Sammy babe? Hmm?” It’s the ghost of Alastair’s darling boy that makes him do it, that makes him twist his wrist and push down, just enough to puncture. Sam strangles out a cry, a confused one that doesn’t know what to do with such an intimate pain, such a strange one. Dean pulls the knife out and shoves his thumb in, feeling blood pool up around it.

“It’d hurt,” Dean continues, like he’s really thinking about it. He fucks in with the tip of his thumb, pushing so hard he feels the knot of the inside of Sam’s navel. And maybe for just a second, he really, truly wants to slice right through him, right here. “Even if you let me cut a pretty big hole, it’d still take some force to get my dick inside--”

“Fuck,” Sam throws an arm over his face, blocking Dean from seeing how turned on he is, from seeing just how pink his face is. Dean grins, a mean look. He pushes the edge of his thumbnail into the puncture wound, tries to pry it open. Sam arches up then, pushing wanton hips up against Dean’s firm ass as he tries to get more of Dean on him. In him.

“Slut,” Dean says fondly, and his smile is genuine and tender as he spins the knife in his hand, the leather-banded handle twisting like a baton until he catches it, angles the freshly sharpened edge just inside of one of Sam’s hipbones, and slices a half moon straight across, not stopping until he reaches the other side.

It’s not deep, not nearly as deep as Dean’s hand wanted to make it, but the knife does its job, making blood spill out bright and copious, staining the sheets beneath and trickling so pretty down into the dark nest of pubes above Sam’s shuddering cock.

“Not enough, is it?” Dean pushes his fingers into the cut, widening it at the most defenseless part of Sam’s belly. It’s so soft in here, so slippery and hot, and Dean has to grip Sam’s body with his thighs and hold on as Sam bucks and rocks beneath him, trying to throw Dean off and trying to get those fingers deeper into the new way Dean’s found into his body. 

Dean presses the tip of the knife into the bright red smile on Sam’s stomach, and he’s careful as a surgeon as he cuts through scant, yellowy fat and scarlet muscle, cutting just an inch or so deeper. Just enough to give him space to finger.

“That’s it,” he sighs, blissful and so in love, his forefinger making a nasty sucking noise as he fucks it in and out of Sam’s perfect belly, the whole room swollen with the sounds of Sam’s pained moans, with the heavy rock of the bed as he writhes on it. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Hmm? Let me inside of you? Fuck you right here in this new place I made?”

He unzips his jeans just to draw a shudder out of Sam, to make the threat a little more real. Feeling Sam’s stomach quake from the inside is a heady pulse of power, and Dean has to force himself to put down the knife, to take this even further, to drive Sam right up to the edge and fall over it with him.

Sam’s nodding though, fast and desperate, his face splotchy with red, eyebrows knitted up tight. He’s lost his words.

His fingers are slippery with blood and plasma and messy from playing around in Sam’s new gash, so he slides them down between Sam’s legs and forces three of them up inside his ass, hooking them up deep and pulling up firmly. Sam makes that certain noise of his, the one that tells Dean he’s found his little g-spot, and he starts to massage out his ass with invasive, blood-slicked rubs, keeping the pressure exactly where Sam craves it. 

“Remember the first time we used blood as lube?” He’s got his own dick out now, can’t help but rub it against Sam’s sliced-up belly, letting the salty head catch on the opening so it burns a little, makes Sam grit his teeth. “How old were you, huh? Not old enough, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

“Eleven.” First word out of Sam in awhile, and Dean’s mouth edges into a strangely gentle smile as he rubs his little brother’s taint in smooth circles, loving how he can feel his own fingers from the other side, from the inside. Sam’s loosened up so easily, and Dean takes way too much pride in the knowledge that he’s the one who trained him that way.

“Dead man’s blood,” Dean reminds him in a whisper against his lips, their bodies straining together now, moving against each other and working to get Dean’s fingers deeper and faster. “It always turned you on a little too much. Shoulda known you’d let me do whatever sick shit to you I wanted.”

Sam makes a noise, a vague sound of denial, of embarrassment, and Dean grins before he bites down on Sam’s bottom lip, teeth sinking in hard enough to break skin. He lets go and tastes blood, feels the small splash of it against his tongue. Sam’s breathing hard, his breath sour with insomnia and missed meals and hanging on by a thread.

Dean loves him so much he wants to bite right into his mouth and just keep going.

“Be a good boy,” Dean tells him softly. He slaps Sam’s cheek just to make it a little pinker and stands up over him on the mattress, shoving his pants down and tugging his shirt off until he’s as naked as Sam is. He walks up until he’s straddling his face and turns around, dropping down to a squat and then finally to his knees.

He has an incredible view of Sam’s long, tight body, can feel the heat of Sam’s huffed breath on his asshole. His balls dangle down full and heavy, grazing Sam’s nose and his sweet mouth. He sits back just a little, just enough to see that mouth, to be able to aim at it clean.

“Open,” he instructs.

Sam opens his mouth immediately, tongue baby bird-hungry and as pink as it’s always been, and Dean spits a perfect, thick line of saliva right down onto it, making it slow so Sam can savor it. He jacks his own dick as he watches Sam fight not to swallow, his tongue quivering in his mouth, throat bobbing.

“Don’t you do it. Open your fucking mouth.”

Sam opens up even wider, tongue out even more, and it’s exactly the red carpet Dean’s come to expect from his baby brother. He plunges his cock right in, stuffing it down the tight fit of his esophagus and lodging it so deep that Sam’s teeth cut into his balls.

Sam always feels like the middle school version of himself in these moments, even when he’s six and a half feet tall and has ridiculously long sideburns and makes noises more ominous than most of the shit they hunt. It’s the way he trembles under Dean, how virgin snug his throat still is after all these years, but mostly it’s the way Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s thighs and holds on, keeping Dean locked in right where he is.

He’s never had to hide any of his secrets from Sammy.

He pumps into his throat just to bulge it out, just to punch at Sam’s stubborn gag reflex and work some foam out of him, get this fuckhole nice and wet. He goes to hands and knees on top of Sam and uses the hand not bracing himself up to smack at Sam’s hairy thighs, tugging on his legs right under the knee one at a time.

“What’s a slut like you doin’ with his legs closed? C’mon, spread ‘em.”

He watches Sam scramble to throws his legs open wide, feet sliding across the messy comforter while Dean fucks his throat so deep that he swears he can feel the burn of stomach acid in his slit.

“You can do better than that. Hold ‘em up. Gimme that cunt.”

It always gets Sam so hot, having his asshole called all the girl stuff. He gets hot all over and dewy-dicked, and Dean watches with no small amount of pride as Sam lets go of his hugging hold on Dean and pulls his own legs up, ignoring the pain of his sliced up belly and all the blood he’s still oozing. 

At the heart of it, Sam’s always been a good boy.

Dean knows Sam’s limits because he put them there. Knows them better than Sam ever will himself. So he knows he can do this, knows that it’s completely okay to haul back with his cupped palm and bring it down with all of his strength between Sam’s asscheeks, the sting of it almost making Dean hiss. Sam strangles out a cry, gargling nasty wetness around Dean’s cock, like he’s rabid. 

Dean rears back and slams into Sam’s throat, pushing in cruelly just to feel him gag, to watch his entire, powerful body lift up off the bed as he tries not to puke.

He resumes his spankings, and Sam’s so good that he’s already moved his hands down so he can pry his ass open even more, exposing his hole so Dean can really get in there and hurt it. 

He loses count after thirty, but he stops when his fingers are burning to the point of numbness and Sam’s asshole is blood red and swollen, and not just from the blood from earlier. His dick is resting in Sam’s throat, forcing it to stay open and relaxed while he tenderizes his cunt. 

Sam must know what’s coming next, because he curls his hand up to tug on his own balls, moving them out of the way to expose the puffy bulge of his taint. Dean curls his right hand into a fist.

“You ready?” Dean asks.

Sam nods, teeth digging into the root of Dean’s cock, his breathing ragged and damp on Dean’s hole.

The first punch lands dead center, and Sam coughs up a fountain of throat juice around Dean’s cock when it does, but Dean can see the way Sam’s working the head of his own dick, wringing out the fat, purple head of it.

He punches Sam’s perineum again, making sure his knuckles dig in nice and deep, making sure it’s gonna leave a bruise. He keeps it close the next few times, hitting it tight and moving right up to Sam’s massive balls that he’s got strangle-gripped in one hand, so tightly held there that the skin is stretched like it’s gonna pop.

Dean growls when he lands a clean right hook on them.

“Give ‘em to me,” Dean grits out, elbows digging into the mattress so he can grab Sam’s balls with both hands, kneading and twisting and pulling on them while he grinds down Sam’s perfect throat, his own nuts smothering Sam, only allowing him enough breath to stay conscious. He slaps them between both hands and then one at a time, and Sam sounds like he’s in true agony by the time Dean’s done, by the time he leaves them alone and blood red between Sam’s trembling thighs. 

“Such a big boy,” he praises, rubbing Sam’s whole package with both hands like he’s kneading dough, smashing his throbbing cock down against his balls and squeezing them so hard together that Sam actually yelps, the sound muffled in his throat. “You want me to ride it?”

He feels Sam nod again, and he smirks for how frantic it feels around his dick.

It’s always so heartbreaking in its own way, but Dean never lets on. He pulls out of Sam’s throat without hesitation, his dick dripping slime all over Sam’s chest and stomach as he moves down his body and squats over Sam’s cock, holding it up so that the head rubs against his own dry asshole.

“I’m not cleaned out,” Dean reminds him, loving the blurt of precome he feels on his hole when he does. Sam fucks his hips up, and it’s not enough force to get him inside, but it’s all the permission Dean needs. 

It hurts like hell, but he works his way down on his brother’s dick until it’s nine inches thick and throbbing in his guts. His face is pinched tight with discomfort, with the pain of it, and when Sam grabs his hips and pushes him to move, Dean has no choice but to lean forward and hold on and let Sam work.

He stares down Sam’s long, skinny legs and at his curled toes, hoping Sam’s view of his sweet, freckled ass is as good as it’s always been when Dean gives him the reverse cowgirl. That dick is punishing his ass, inflicting just as much pain in thirty seconds inside of Dean as Dean’s managed to do to Sam in the last half hour. 

“So fucking good, Dean,” Sam groans, his voice hoarse and barely audible, and Dean hasn’t heard him speak in so long that it almost startles him. He drops his full weight down onto Sam’s body, forcing him keep still so that Dean can ride him at his own pace.

“You can fuck me all you want, but we both know this cunt’s still mine, don’t we?” He pushes Sam’s legs apart again and maneuvers himself until he’s sitting between them and still grinding on his dick, and when he stuffs four fingers back up inside of Sam with only a mouthful of spit to guide the way, Sam sounds nice and bottom-y again.

“That’s right, Sammy. That’s it. You know my whole hand’s going up there, so don’t fucking fight me.”

The angle is awkward as hell, and Sam’s half-sitting up now and playing with Dean’s nipples like he’s got a nice handful, but Dean’s a stubborn bastard when it comes to Sam’s ass. 

The sound of his thumb popping in past the paper thin stretch of Sam’s rim is beautiful.

It’s so warm and close in here, and Dean can always feel it around his fist in a way he just can’t around his cock. He can translate sensation with his hand much more easily than his dick, knows how to describe texture and warmth to himself with it that always makes this so intimate that Dean can’t help but get a little emotional.

His elbow protests and his wrist pops, but he twists his hand around inside of Sam to graze his prostate before he pulls out again, licking his lips at the sight of Sam’s blown-out asshole.

“You’re gonna come in me from getting fisted, not from fucking my ass, you hear me?”

Dean doubles down and lays into him, diving back in with his fingers straight at first and then finally with his hand clenched up tight, knuckles kissing Sam’s ass first before he sinks his whole hand inside. It’s agonizing and dry and pulling Sam’s insides to the outside, but Dean can feel the way his dick throbs and swells inside of him, feels how it gets a little wetter in there because Sam’s leaking like a teenager and so close to coming that it’s almost embarrassing for him.

Sam tucks a few fingers up into Dean’s ass, and Dean growls, turning around to throw a glare at Sam over his shoulder. Sam’s a tear-streaked, snotty mess, his hair in his eyes and his mouth open, and he looks taken apart and young, looks like he’s nowhere but right here, with no one but Dean. He doesn’t even have to ask if Lucifer is gone. He knows he is.

“Fill me up, Sammy,” Dean asks, too sweet for all the blood and pain and shit and sweat they’re covered in right now.

He punches back into Sam’s ass and keeps his fist there, letting the sensation of Sam’s convulsing insides practically crush the bones in his hand as he comes on it and straight up into Dean’s body, completing a beautiful, filthy cycle they’ve created here between them.

Fuck you, Dean thinks to God and the Devil and every fucking body else in this world and above and below it, right as he bears down on Sam’s cock and comes untouched all over both of them.

He wrings Sam out, milking him with his middle knuckle pressed up into the perfect spot in Sam’s guts as his own get completely flooded, and he feels so swollen and cream-filled that his belly pooches out a little, all wifey and cute and Sam-made. 

He taps his dick on his own forearm, shaking off the last drops of jizz and savoring the way Sam shakes all over as he turns his hand around and around in his ass, preparing to pull it out.

“Take a deep breath for me, little brother,” he murmurs, rubbing at the outside of Sam’s rim and waiting to feel the deep intake of air before he yanks it out, leaving Sam pink-pushed and gaped, his hand a mess of unpreparedness that he wipes off on the blankets. 

They’ll sleep in the other bed tonight.

He kisses Sam’s mouth after he climbs off his dick and helps Sam up from the bed, guiding them both towards the bathroom and the shower. He rinses them both off and spends an inordinate amount of time patching Sam up, making sure the stitches are tight and exact and not tugging, and he kisses a painkiller into Sam’s mouth and hopes it helps him sleep.

The covers are warm and soft enough when they slip under them naked and as clean as Winchesters get, and Sammy tucks into his side and nestles into his neck, leaving little thank-yous kissed into his skin as he falls asleep and Dean settles in to keep watch, gun under his pillow.

No devils in this room tonight.


End file.
